Lysbeth, a Tale of the Dutch by H. Rider Haggard (reading in the dark .TXT) 📖

the property that constituted the treasure. At the head came an almost endless list of jewels, all of them carefully scheduled. These were the first three items:

“Item: The necklace of great pearls that I exchanged with the Emperor Charles when he took a love for sapphires, enclosed in a watertight copper box.

“Item: A coronet and stomacher of rubies mounted in my own gold work, the best that ever I did, which three queens have coveted, and none was rich enough to buy.

“Item: The great emerald that my father left me, the biggest known, having magic signs of ancients engraved upon the back of it, and enclosed in a chased case of gold.”

Then came other long lists of precious stones, too numerous to mention, but of less individual value, and after them this entry:

“Item: Four casks filled with gold coin (I know not the exact weight or number).”

At the bottom of this schedule was written, “A very great treasure, the greatest of all the Netherlands, a fruit of three generations of honest trading and saving, converted by me for the most part into jewels, that it may be easier to move. This is the prayer of me, Hendrik Brant, who owns it for his life; that this gold may prove the earthly doom of any Spaniard who tries to steal it, and as I write it comes into my mind that God will grant this my petition. Amen. Amen. Amen! So say I, Hendrik Brant, who stand at the Gate of Death.”

All of this inventory Dirk read aloud, and when he had finished Lysbeth gasped with amazement.

“Surely,” she said, “this little cousin of ours is richer than many princes. Yes, with such a dowry princes would be glad to take her in marriage.”

“The fortune is large enough,” answered Dirk. “But, oh! what a burden has Hendrik Brant laid upon our backs, for under this will the wealth is left, not straight to the lawful heiress, Elsa, but to me and my heirs on the trusts started, and they are heavy. Look you, wife, the Spaniards know of this vast hoard, and the priests know of it, and no stone on earth or hell will they leave unturned to win that money. I say that, for his own sake, my cousin Hendrik would have done better to accept the offer of the Spanish thief Ramiro and give him three-fourths and escape to England with the rest. But that is not his nature, who was ever stubborn, and who would die ten times over rather than enrich the men he hates. Moreover, he, who is no miser, has saved this fortune that the bulk of it may be spent for his country in the hour of her need, and alas! of that need we are made the judges, since he is called away. Wife, I foresee that these gems and gold will breed bloodshed and misery to all our house. But the trust is laid upon us and it must be borne. Foy, to-morrow at dawn you and Martin will start for The Hague to carry out the command of your cousin Brant.”

“Why should my son’s life be risked on this mad errand?” asked Lysbeth.

“Because it is a duty, mother,” answered Foy cheerfully, although he tried to look depressed. He was young and enterprising; moreover, the adventure promised to be full of novelty.

In spite of himself Dirk smiled and bade him summon Martin.

A minute later Foy was in the great man’s den and kicking at his prostrate form. “Wake up, you snoring bull,” he said, “awake!”

Martin sat up, his red beard showing like a fire in the shine of the taper. “What is it now, Master Foy?” he asked yawning. “Are they after us about those two dead soldiers?”

“No, you sleepy lump, it’s treasure.”

“I don’t care about treasure,” replied Martin, indifferently.

“It’s Spaniards.”

“That sounds better,” said Martin, shutting his mouth. “Tell me about it, Master Foy, while I pull on my jerkin.”

So Foy told him as much as he could in two minutes.

“Yes, it sounds well,” commented Martin, critically. “If I know anything of those Spaniards, we shan’t get back to Leyden without something happening. But I don’t like that bit about the women; as likely as not they will spoil everything.”

Then he accompanied Foy to the upper room, and there received his instructions from Dirk with a solemn and unmoved countenance.

“Are you listening?” asked Dirk, sharply. “Do you understand?”

“I think so, master,” replied Martin. “Hear;” and he repeated sentence by sentence every word that had fallen from Dirk’s lips, for when he chose to use it Martin’s memory was good. “One or two questions, master,” he said. “This stuff must be brought through at all hazards?”

“At all hazards,” answered Dirk.

“And if we cannot bring it through, it must be hidden in the best way possible?”

“Yes.”

“And if people should try to interfere with us, I understand that we must fight?”

“Of course.”

“And if in the fighting we chance to kill anybody I shall not be reproached and called a murderer by the pastor or others?”

“I think not,” replied Dirk.

“And if anything should happen to my young master here, his blood will not be laid upon my head?”

Lysbeth groaned. Then she stood up and spoke.

“Martin, why do you ask such foolish questions? Your peril my son must share, and if harm should come to him as may chance, we shall know well that it is no fault of yours. You are not a coward or a traitor, Martin.”

“Well, I think not, mistress, at least not often; but you see here are two duties: the first, to get this money through, the second, to protect the Heer Foy. I wish to know which of these is the more important.”

It was Dirk who answered.

“You go to carry out the wishes of my cousin Brant; they must be attended to before anything else.”

“Very good,” replied Martin; “you quite understand, Heer Foy?”

“Oh! perfectly,” replied that young man, grinning.

“Then go to bed for an hour or two, as you may have to keep awake to-morrow night; I will call you at dawn. Your servant, master and mistress, I hope to report myself to you within sixty hours, but if I do not come within eighty, or let us say a hundred, it may be well to make inquiries,” and he shuffled back to his den.

Youth sleeps well whatever may be behind or before it, and it was not until Martin had called to him thrice next morning that Foy opened his eyes in the grey light, and, remembering, sprang from his bed.

“There’s no hurry,” said Martin, “but it will be as well to get out of Leyden before many people are about.”

As he spoke Lysbeth entered the room fully dressed, for she had not slept that night, carrying in her hand a little leathern bag.

“How is Adrian, mother?” asked Foy, as she stooped down to kiss him.

“He sleeps, and the doctor, who is still with him, says that he does well,” she answered. “But see here, Foy, you are about to start upon your first adventure, and this is my present to you—this and my blessing.” Then she untied the neck of the bag and poured from it something that lay upon the table in a shining heap no larger than Martin’s fist. Foy took hold of the thing and held it up, whereon the little heap stretched itself out marvellously, till it was as large indeed as the body garment of a man.

“Steel shirt!” exclaimed Martin, nodding his head in approval, and adding, “good wear for those who mix with Spaniards.”

“Yes,” said Lysbeth, “my father brought this from the East on one of his voyages. I remember he told me that he paid for it its weight in gold and silver, and that even then it was sold to him only by the special favour of the king of that country. The shirt, they said, was ancient, and of such work as cannot now be made. It had been worn from father to son in one family for three hundred years, but no man that wore it ever died by body-cut or thrust, since sword or dagger cannot pierce that steel. At least, son, this is the story, and, strangely enough, when I lost all the rest of my heritage—” and she sighed, “this shirt was left to me, for it lay in its bag in the old oak chest, and none noticed it or thought it worth the taking. So make the most of it, Foy; it is all that remains of your grandfather’s fortune, since this house is now your father’s.”

Beyond kissing his mother in thanks, Foy made no answer; he was too much engaged in examining the wonders of the shirt, which as a worker in metals he could well appreciate. But Martin said again:

“Better than money, much better than money. God knew that and made them leave the mail.”

“I never saw the like of it,” broke in Foy; “look, it runs together like quicksilver and is light as leather. See, too, it has stood sword and dagger stroke before to-day,” and holding it in a sunbeam they perceived in many directions faint lines and spots upon the links caused in past years by the cutting edge of swords and the points of daggers. Yet never a one of those links was severed or broken.

“I pray that it may stand them again if your body be inside of it,” said Lysbeth. “Yet, son, remember always that there is One who can guard you better than any human mail however perfect,” and she left the room.

Then Foy drew on the coat over his woollen jersey, and it fitted him well, though not so well as in after years, when he had grown thicker. Indeed, when his linen shirt and his doublet were over it none could have guessed that he was clothed in armour of proof.

“It isn’t fair, Martin,” he said, “that I should be wrapped in steel and you in nothing.”

Martin smiled. “Do you take me for a fool, master,” he said, “who have seen some fighting in my day, private and public? Look here,” and, opening his leathern jerkin, he showed that he was clothed beneath in a strange garment of thick but supple hide.

“Bullskin,” said Martin, “tanned as we know how up in Friesland. Not as good as yours, but will turn most cuts or arrows. I sat up last night making one for you, it was almost finished before, but the steel is cooler and better for those who can afford it. Come, let us go and eat; we should be at the gates at eight when they open.”